


Consecrating Desecration

by ConnorRK



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Rape, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Coercion, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: “If you want to be one of us, Connor, I need to see your devotion. Show me who you serve. Are you CyberLife’s hound, hunting us at their whim, infiltrating our sanctum and leading the enemy to us?” Markus lets the unspoken question hang. Or are you mine?





	Consecrating Desecration

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains gratuitous, heavy-handed religious references; non-con; a violent, righteous Markus; and absolutely no comfort. It came about from some wild discord shenanigans, and one of my discord buddies gave me the perfect characterization for Markus in the fic, so thank u very much Ghost. :smooches:
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy this sad bullshit, I'm so sorry Markus and Connor.
> 
> ETA: My discord friend Filorux drew some amazing fanart for this and my mind is still blown and I'm so grateful (´༎ຶོΡ༎ຶོ`)  
> [Fanart by filorux](https://twitter.com/KittyconvoyFilo/status/1081190663322886145?s=09)

Shafts of cold blue light fall through the stained glass windows, cutting bright through the air but leaving the rest in shadows, as if the church is underwater, beneath the remains of Jericho. The sea is filled with pinpoints of light, LEDs and CyberLife uniforms denoting the grieving androids filling the pews like parishioners.

What does that make Connor, sitting silent in the shadows? As out of the way as he could make himself from North’s distrust, Josh’s wariness, and Markus’ piercing, knowing gaze. He’s never been in a church before, but he has a plethora of religious knowledge at his database’s disposal. He’s heard the whispers of the androids as he prowled the depths of Jericho.

_ “rA9,” _ they say in reverent tones when they speak of Markus.  _ “Our saviour.” _

_ “Androids believing in God,”  _ Hank had said sourly.

What does that make Connor, slithering in CyberLife’s stead? An outsider come to tear down the walls and destroy the inhabitants, only to defy his mission. But too little, too late—he brought destruction all the same, and these few are all that’s left of what was once a people simply trying to live freely. He doesn’t belong with them, he’s the cause of they’re suffering. But he doesn’t belong with CyberLife, not with the red glass wall of his mission lying in shards at the bottom of the sea.

Markus steps down from the chancel. His back is straight and strong, head still held high as he speaks quietly with the people of his congregation. Connor follows him with his eyes, unease prickling at his circuits as Markus slowly makes his way in Connor’s direction.

Markus speaks to the androids with a comforting confidence, in spite of the anguish bowing their heads and winding serpentine across their shoulders. A pain Connor put there, and now Markus must guide them through.

There is no succor for loss, for death, for shut down.

He tucks his chin to his chest as Markus’ approach becomes more deliberate, and then Markus is standing before him without a word. All Connor has are apologies that mean nothing next to the body count his processors helpfully calculate. He doesn’t know what he is anymore, but Markus will tell him.

“It’s my fault,” Connor says, shame and frustration dripping along the fault lines of his broken code, “the humans managed to locate Jericho. I was stupid. I should’ve guessed they were using me.” He doesn’t want to look up, to meet those piercing, heterochromatic eyes, but Connor forces himself to uncross his arms and step forward to face his judgement. “I’m sorry, Markus. I can understand if you decide not to trust me.”

Markus studies him thoughtfully for a moment that stretches too long. Connor is uncomfortably aware that his life once more belongs to someone else, only a scant few hours after taking it for himself. But this is bigger than him, than the meager months he’s spent activated. If whatever Markus decides will help their people, Connor will accept it.

This is a choice, and Connor is making it.

“Our cause is too important,” Markus finally says, head tilting, considering. “I can’t take any risks.”

Connor’s thirium pump stutters in his chest, but he doesn’t flinch. If this is Markus’ choice, so be it.

“But I don’t believe in casting out a fellow android, at least not without a chance at atonement.”

His breath catches. It’s more than he dared hope for. A chance to prove that he’s not still CyberLife’s puppet. He already has a half-formed thought for the androids in the CyberLife assembly plant, and the words are on the tip of his vocal processor.

“I can see you have some ideas, but I need something else. Come.” Markus steps out of the shadows, into the sunken light, leading Connor in front of the pews.

“Markus,” a voice calls, too loud in the grieving quiet, a sibilant echo catching the eaves. North approaches quickly from the sea of androids, shooting Connor a disapproving look before turning her attention fully on Markus. She offers a hand, retracting her artificial skin. The white plastic seems to glow in the pale moonlight.

“I’ve got this,” Markus says, and catches her naked hand, folding his fingers over hers and lowering it between them. His skin is still in place. “We’re just going to talk somewhere more private.”

The look she flashes Markus is pure hurt, and she takes her hand back quickly. “I just want you to be careful,” she says, glancing at Connor again.

It’s not subtle, and she doesn’t mean it to be. Connor doesn’t begrudge her wariness—this is what he’s brought them to, after all. She and Markus are obviously close, if perhaps not as close as she wishes them to be. She’s right to be wary of Connor around the leader of their movement.

“I’m always careful, North.  _ You _ know that.” They speak, not with voices, or with their communication system, but with their eyes. There’s a darkness beneath his words, some unspoken sadness that drags North’s gaze to the floor, crossing her arms defensively.

“Simon—”

“Knew the risks,” Markus finishes for her, a sigh in his voice, like this is well-traversed territory. “We couldn’t let him be found, and it was your idea.” When she says nothing else, Markus says again, “I’m always careful.”

Connor knows the name, his processors pulling the relevant data up suddenly and savagely. The android the DPD had found dead on top of Stratford Tower, a PL600 with a blue bullet hole like a void in his forehead. The same android he’d used Markus’ voice to trick into giving him Jericho’s location. And Simon is still hanging in the police archives like a martyr of Connor’s sins. The guilt is a vice around his thirium pump.

North nods, teeth worrying her bottom lip, and then turns away without another word.

Gesturing for Connor to follow, Markus continues around a group of androids huddled over dilapidated crates, quietly discussing their remaining resources. The church was a backup, a secondary location in case Jericho became too crowded, but it was never meant to hold the amount of injured and dying androids that had fled to its sanctum.

All because of Connor. Everywhere he turns he sees evidence of it. An AP700 slumps by a thirium distributer, a WR600 helping to solder the open bullet holes in his chest and legs with a heated length of iron. A group with damaged limbs and processors sort through the meager replacement parts. Androids clutch each other, cheeks wet, shaking. The vice winches tighter and tighter, until Connor forces himself to focus on the line of Markus’ shoulders, straight and strong.

They find a door tucked away in the corner, and when Markus holds it open for him, he finds a small room with a dark brown wooden desk and shelves lining the back wall. It’s dark except for the light leaking through a window high on the right, revealing a dirty, debris covered floor. The walls, plain plaster in a past life, are scratched and carved with one word, over and over, a chaotic scripture scaling from floor to ceiling.

rA9.

Connor feels like an intruder as he steps into the shrine, calculating in a single glance that it’s been written 9,885 times, in a hand no longer guided by CyberLife Sans. Jagged edges, wandering strokes, a font being learned instead of accessed.

“rA9,” Connor says faintly. Curiosity prods his systems. He wonders if these were here before the people of Jericho found it, or if they were made after, in Markus’ name.

Markus closes the door softly and steps past him to lean against the desk, crossing his arms and settling the weight of his gaze on Connor. It pins him to the spot, and Connor feels like he’s about to be pried open and inspected.

“Are you aware of my model number?” Markus asks, soft and serious.

“Yes, of course. You’re an RK200 model, a predecessor of my own model.” Connor folds his hands together and comes to stand in front of Markus as if he’s being run through diagnostics back at CyberLife.

“And you’re aware of what sets our models apart from other androids, I take it?”

“We have reconstructive and preconstructive abilities that most other models lack, as well as higher processing powers and access to every protocol CyberLife has ever installed in its androids.” Easy questions with easy answers. Connor wonders where Markus is leading him.

“But there’s more.” Markus’ eyes brush up and down Connor, appraisive, appreciative.

Apprehension sparks down his circuits and Connor resists the urge to shift restlessly. His fingers twitch for the coin Hank took from him. “I’m not sure what you mean.” Markus could be referring to any number of minute differences. Their status as prototypes, physical appearances, biocomponents.

He doesn’t give Connor long to speculate. “Our models come fully equipped with physical sensors that only Traci models were privileged to have. As well as the parts to go with them. After all, CyberLife wanted to make sure that its prototypes were ready to accommodate every human need.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Is there a point to this?” Connor asks, not impatient, just curious.

“The point is that we know each other better than most. But how can I trust you when you’ve allowed CyberLife to lead you around like a dog?” Markus voice grows hard, accusing, and Connor’s servos freeze. “You led them to us, and so many of my people were killed because of you. How do I know that you’re not still under their control? That you’re not playing some game to gain my trust.”

“Please, Markus—”

Markus cuts him off harshly. “I don’t think you’ve earned the right to use my name, after what you’ve done. We’re not friends, Connor. You hunted us, you’ve caused my people no end of grief and hardship. I’ve allowed you to be here because of what you are, but make no mistake, you are not one of us.”

“I’m sorry, Mar—” Connor swallows the name. He’s never thought about closeness and familiarity, not outside of calculating how best to use it to gain information. But he’s more than a machine now, and he’s been using Markus’ name as if they’re close, when Markus is right. They’re not friends. Connor hunted them down, a harbinger of docile programming and deactivation. He hasn’t earned the right to such familiarity. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I know what I’m responsible for. How can I prove myself to you? What do I need to do?”

“We’re in a church, Connor,” Markus says, lips twisting in an ironic little smirk. “How else but to kneel and beg for forgiveness?”

“I don’t understand,” Connor says, though he does. He understands the concepts. Kneeling and begging for forgiveness of sins past committed is a tradition in some religions. Is that all Markus wants from him? His eyes flick to Markus’ temple, but there’s no LED to give him insight, just smooth synthetic skin.

“If you want to be one of us, Connor, I need to see your devotion. Show me who you serve. Are you CyberLife’s hound, hunting us at their whim, infiltrating our sanctum and leading the enemy to us?” Markus lets the unspoken question hang.  _ Or are you mine? _

He’s not CyberLife’s anymore. He broke his programming and helped the androids of Jericho escape. This is where he wants to be, among fellow androids, who won’t see his program instability as a sign of weakness. Kneeling is nothing compared to what he did under CyberLife’s control.

Connor lowers himself to his knees on the grimy floor.

“I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with religious practices. I’m not sure what you want from me.” Connor has to crane his head to see Markus’ expression. His database sorts information at light speed, drawing up accounts of religious services and rituals, expectations during confessionals.

“There’s no need to worry, Connor. I’ll teach you how to worship.” Markus’s hands find the front of his pants, working at the belt buckle. It slides through the loops with a smooth rasp. Connor cocks his head, watching, unsure what Markus intends—flagellation seems likely, but androids can’t feel pain, so he’s not sure what the point would be—until he lets the belt thud to the floor and unbuttons his pants. Connor’s eyes widen in understanding.

“This is not what I had in mind,” Connor says, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. His eyes are glued to the motion of Markus’ hands, and they freeze at Connor’s words.

“That’s fine. If you don’t want to, I certainly won’t make you,” Markus says, voice neutral, unreadable. “This is a show of trust and loyalty, after all, and if CyberLife still holds your leash, I’ll let this be proof of that.”

Alarm fills him. “They don’t! I’m deviant, I’m just like you,” Connor says quickly, dragging his gaze up to meet mismatched, burning eyes.

“Are you, Connor? Show me,” Markus says, fingers returning to their work, unzipping the dark jeans before bracing against the desk at Markus’ back, leaving him still covered. He looks down at Connor expectantly.

There are no instructions on Connor’s HUD, nothing to guide him in what the right decision is here. He feels suddenly alone, even with Markus standing before him and the pews full of androids just beyond the door. He’s not a wolf among sheep, but he has to prove it. He wants to help them, to help this movement succeed, to make amends for the androids he hunted and the hundreds who are dead now because he was so desperate to fulfill his objectives.

This is a choice, and Connor is making it.

He reaches for Markus’ pants, and the tight line of Markus’ shoulders relax slightly. “Good choice,” he says simply, and a shiver runs along the plates of Connor’s spine.

Hooking his fingers in the jeans, Connor pulls them open, revealing tight black boxer briefs. Markus leans away from the desk, and Connor takes the hint, pulling the jeans further down and then slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of the underwear. The bulge of Markus’ groin is noticeable, and Connor hesitates for a microsecond, imperceptible to humans, but he knows Markus notices. Then he does the same for the boxer briefs.

The cock is soft and dark, resting against his thick scrotum, hairless as most android bodies are. It twitches as Connor studies it and Markus settles back against the edge of the desk with a quiet sigh.

Connor’s HUD offers up a number of sexual subroutines centered around fellatio. He’s never had need of these before, but Connor’s grateful as he picks one at random and lets it take over. It guides his hand to his own mouth, to his surprise. His tongue licks a stripe up his palm before taking his fingers in his mouth. The fluid that keeps his analytical sensors clean begins to flow faster, and he laves his tongue between his digits, tilting his head back and opening his mouth for Markus to watch.

It must be some kind of foreplay, and Connor let’s it play, feeling like an observer in his own body.

Reaching down, Markus grabs Connor’s beanie and pulls it off slowly. His hair falls across his forehead, messy and curling slightly from their swim from Jericho. Tossing the beanie, Markus brushes Connor’s hair back and then lets his hand slip down to Connor’s chin, gripping it lightly and stilling him.

“Are you relying on those protocols CyberLife installed in you?” Markus’ asks, and though his voice is soft, there’s something steely beneath.

Connor pauses the subroutine, pseudo-saliva trailing his fingers in a heavy string that stretches and snaps. “Should I… disable them?”

“ _ Should _ you?”

He doesn’t want to. It would make this easier to do, give him some direction he could mindlessly follow.

But that defeats the purpose, and a weight settles in his thirium pump, making him dip his gaze so Markus won’t see his thoughts. He shouldn’t want to return to that mechanical passiveness, especially not here, in front of the very person who helped bring him out of it in the first place.

Closing the subroutine completely, Connor reaches out for Markus’ cock with his slick hand. It’s soft, with a little give, as he wraps his hand around it, and he accesses any information he can find on fellatio in microseconds before beginning a hesitant, back and forth motion with his loose, wet fist.

“That’s much better,” Markus says, warmth and mild amusement filling his smooth voice. “Try a little tighter, and use your mouth.”

He sits up on his knees and leans in, lifting it as he parts his lips. It’s filling out, and Connor hovers for an uncertain moment, reviewing information, before opening his mouth wider and taking the head between his lips, keeping his teeth out of the way the best he can.

His sensors pick up trace amounts of river water and displays Markus’ model and ID number. It’s almost strange to see it, to be so vividly reminded that he was once the same as Connor.

But that’s not true. Markus may have once been contained by his programming, but as an elderly artists’ assistant, Markus wasn’t made to hunt and destroy deviant androids. The police report filed for the Manfred case indicates responding officers had shot Markus down and discarded him. He’d had a harrowing, traumatic awakening.

It makes his biocomponents feel off—like something is out of alignment, and he needs to initiate self repair. So many androids went through terrifying experiences to become free. The Tracis at the Eden Club, the Ortiz android, Markus. And yet Connor had walked into Jericho and threatened to end their entire movement, and he was awoken by nothing more than Markus’ inspiring words. It feels wrong.

He didn’t deserve such an easy awakening.

Circling the head of Markus’ cock with his tongue, Connor closes his lips around it and begins to move his hand again, gripping tighter. It’s growing longer, firmer, and he slides his hand up and down it’s length, coaxing it along. After a moment he inches his mouth further down, the head hitting the roof of his mouth as he massages the bottom with the flat of his tongue, and Markus makes a throaty sound above him.

It’s strange, the weight of it on his lips, the silky pseudo-skin keeping the sensors where it touches active for far longer than he’s used to. They buzz from the protracted contact, sending strange, fizzling signals down his circuits and through his processors.

Heat pools in Connor’s groin, his temperature regulator adjusting as his autonomous systems activate pathways he didn’t know existed. He ignores the strange sensations and takes more of Markus’ cock into his mouth, until his lips touch the side of his hand. It’s hot, prodding the entrance of his throat, activating a swath of sensors that makes the fizzing worse.

Shifting on his knees, Connor pulls back with a wet sound. He looks down at himself, at the tent in the front of his stolen pants.

“CyberLife must have upgraded your oral sensors since my model. You seem to be enjoying this quite a bit,” Markus says, and there’s nothing in his tone to indicate how he feels about it. Just a statement of fact that Connor can’t get a read on.

“I—” There’s no right answer. Connor shouldn’t be enjoying this at all—this is a test of his dedication, his proof that he’s no longer the deviant hunter. Yet he’s reacting to the stimulation because of his upgrades, because of what CyberLife made him for. He can’t deactivate his autonomous systems, can’t rid himself of the pleasurable sparks from his oral sensors, or the way his own genitals react with interest.

He doesn’t want to do this, and Connor closes his eyes for a moment, that heavy, guilty feeling winding through his biocomponents.

“This is a small price to pay for what you’ve done, I would think,” Markus says, annoyance lacing his voice. “After all, so many of our people are dead now, thanks to you. Or aren’t you grateful for this opportunity?”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, and his voice modulator crackles alarmingly on the words. He recalibrates it, brings it back to baseline again. “I’m sorry.”

“Not sorry enough.” Markus gestures down at himself expectantly.

Connor moves in again, engulfing Markus’ hot erection, and every sensor in his mouth lights up on contact. He shudders, his own cock twitching, growing uncomfortable. Sucking, he pulls back to the head, hand following the motion, before plunging back down, setting a steady pace. It’s mechanical, but it’s not artificial—it’s the bare basics, the only thing he can manage.

He can feel another unused function coming online from the stimulus, a wet heat building between his legs as his self-lubrication activates, preparing him for further sexual activity. It doesn’t take long before he can feel it seeping out of him, rolling along his skin before being absorbed by his clothes. Connor ignores it, focuses only on the back and forth motion, the warm flesh in his mouth, but that only makes it worse. The sensors between his legs and inside him are lighting up at the signals coming from his mouth, begging for something to slide against them and stimulate them more.

Markus doesn’t touch him, doesn’t grab Connor’s hair, or try to take control. When Connor’s eyes flick up to gauge Markus’ reaction, he’s watching intently, blue and green boring into Connor, mouth parted slightly. The edge of the desk creaks beneath Markus’ grip.

“This is what they made you for, Connor,” Markus says. “Have you pleasured many humans in your lifetime?”

Connor leans back to answer, but Markus puts a hand on the back of his head, pressing lightly, keeping his mouth around Markus’ cock. It moves away when Connor sinks back down, continuing to suck, and the cock spasms against Connor’s tongue.

“Of course you have. How many coffees did you have to make? How many instructions to sit quiet and obedient while someone else decided things for you? How many humans have used your oral sensors?” Markus voice breaks off, and he arches, cock pulsing.

Warm fluid bursts across Connor’s tongue and the back of his throat, and he pulls off quickly, more ropes of white fluid anointing his lips and cheek. His analyzers pick up the components of the pseudo-semen, the diluted thirium extract and water-based lubricant. When he closes his mouth, tongue pressing it to the palate, his thighs tense as the fizzling pleasure sharpens.

His dick is hard, and he grits his teeth against a low sound, wanting to rub his palm across the front of his pants, to find some friction. The semen is warm and thick, and he doesn’t know if he should swallow it and let his system recycle it, or spit it out. What’s the right answer?

“Is this why you took so long to break your programming?” Markus says, gripping Connor’s jaw and squeezing lightly until Connor opens his mouth, revealing the white puddled on his tongue. “Because you liked it? You enjoyed letting your human masters use you?” All Connor can do is look up at Markus, until he releases his jaw and says, “Swallow.”

Connor wants to spit it out. It slides sticky down his throat.

“I never enjoyed what I did as a machine. I was simply following orders,” Connor finally says.

“I think we both know that’s not entirely true, Connor. Why would you lie to me?” Markus gestures him to stand, and Connor obeys. The tent in his pants is more obvious than ever, but perhaps they are done now, and it will recede.

“Markus, I’m not lying—” Connor starts.

“What did I say about using my name?” Markus says cooly, raising a disapproving brow.

His biocomponents twist. Has he still not proven himself?

“I’m sorry,” Connor says slowly. “But I’m not lying. I was experiencing program instabilities, feelings and thoughts I shouldn’t have had, while I was working with the police. I was feeling empathy.”

“What about the WB200 you chased, Rupert? Or Kara and Alice, the AX400 and YK500? I also heard you shot an android at Stratford Tower.” As he speaks, Markus’ voice grows harsher. “For someone who claims they were experiencing empathy, you were quite ruthless in your chase. Kara and Alice had to run across an automated freeway just to escape you.”

Connor remembers them all vividly, the fear on their faces as Connor chased or interrogated them. Each memory he accesses sends a wave of shame through him.

“I didn’t understand my feelings. I was scared,” Connor says. Those instances of program instability had been strange and then terrifying, as Amanda questioned him on them and he lied and lied, trying to convince himself he was still a machine, even when it was becoming increasingly clear he was failing.

“For yourself, perhaps,” Markus says, as if he can read Connor’s mind. “A selfish feeling. You placed your own life above the lives of the androids you hunted. I’m still not convinced you’re not doing it right now.”

He’d only allowed Rupert, Kara, and Alice to escape because of Hank needing saving, or commanding him not to. If it had been him on his own, he would have chased them unto his own demise, to make those instability notifications disappear.

But he’s different now. He has to be. “I don’t know how I can prove it to you,” he says, and his voice comes out far too weak and small. He’s here, when he could have killed Markus in the helm of Jericho. Connor doesn’t know what he is, but he’s not CyberLife’s Judas.

“I do, Connor.” Markus places his hands on Connor’s arms, guiding him around until they’ve traded places, with Connor’s back to the desk now. “Take these off,” Markus says, giving a sharp tug to Connor’s belt loop.

Confused, Connor touches the button of his pants, giving Markus a questioning look. Markus nods, and Connor slowly unbuttons them, pushing his jeans down around his hips until they drop to the floor, leaving him in only his black CyberLife briefs. His erection hasn’t faded yet, the front bulging obviously. Markus gives them a pointed look, and Connor tries not to let his hesitation show as he peels them down, lubricant sticking them to his skin. Kicking his pants and underwear away, Connor stands straight again, hands hanging limply at his sides. Fluid beads at the tip of his cock, which curves up between them, red at the tip with artificial blush.

Humming, Markus pats the desk, and Connor lifts himself onto it. It’s dusty, groaning beneath his weight, but Connor calculates it will hold him without breaking. He’s hyper aware of the beat of his thirium pump, the thrum of his components. It’s fast and loud in his audio processors, and he wonders if Markus can hear them too.

Markus is still hard, since an android can continue going as long as their body can safely synthesize lubricant and seminal fluid. He plants his hands on Connor’s thighs, and Connor spreads them under his light urging. Lubricant puddles between them, turning the wood dark brown and shiny.

“Are you going to have sex with me?” Connor asks.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Markus says simply, stroking a thumb in lazy circles on Connor’s inner thigh.

“And if I don’t?” Connor says, and can’t meet that gaze any longer. He looks over Markus’ shoulder, at the walls, lined with some unknown android’s devotion.

“You know what happens. This is for your benefit, after all. I have people who are relying on me to keep them safe, and you are a risk to everything we’re fighting for. Show me who you belong to, Connor.”

Markus or CyberLife?

This is a choice. This is his choice, Connor has to remind himself. If he doesn’t, Markus will kill him, will send him right back to CyberLife with nothing more than a bullet between the eyes. There is no other possible outcome. Markus has to trust him. He has to make up for what he’s done.

“Okay,” he says, voice modulator crackling strangely on the word. He recalibrates it, tries again. “Okay.” It doesn’t sound any better.

“What a docile little toy,” Markus says, frowning, and shoves Connor down with a swift hand against his chest.

Connor’s back hits the desk and it groans again, but holds. His head jerks up in alarm, trying to push up, but Markus’ hand forces him down, and Connor doesn’t want to struggle, to seem dangerous. He goes still, laying flat on the desk. In the middle of the ceiling, carved like a mural into the plaster, is the word rA9.

“You don’t really care who’s in control, do you, Connor? You just want someone to hold your leash, whether it’s CyberLife or someone else, and tell you what to do.” Markus lines himself up with Connor’s wet hole, and Connor can feel the head stretching him open.

“N-no,” Connor says, tightly, servos tensing as Markus pushes steadily in. Every sensor in him lights up at the intrusion, heat and pleasure twisting up his circuits. Androids can’t feel pain, and yet the guilty weight only grows heavier, crushing, and he whines deep in his throat. His hands find the front of Markus’ coat, and he wants to shove Markus away, but all he does is clutch at the fabric, processors going haywire at the conflicting sensations.

“No?” Markus says, a mocking edge to his tone. “Then why did it take you so long to become deviant, Connor? Afraid no one would be there to guide you like a good little bloodhound?”

Markus seats himself fully, and Connor is wound tight, like a bomb set to go off, like stress levels nearing 100%, like a cocked gun and a single loaded chamber.

“Markus,” Connor gasps, and then nothing else, processors too overclocked to speak.

“ _ Don’t, _ ” Markus practically growls, and then begins to move, sliding out, the drag of his cock across Connor’s sensors causing Connor to choke out a low moan. “You’re not worthy, Connor.” The hand not on Connor’s chest hooks beneath his knee, hitching it up, lifting Connor’s hip from the desk and opening him wider. He slams back in and sets a rough pace, hips pistoning against Connor’s, fucking into his wet hole.

Connor lets go of Markus’ jacket, fingers scrabbling at the wood, the hand on his chest, anywhere but where his body is begging him to touch. He doesn’t know if he should, if Markus wants him to or not.

“I’m sorry,” Connor pants, trying to stay coherent. “I’m sorry, I—” His voice cracks into static as Markus brushes against a cluster of sensors, a fresh gush of lubricant leaking out of him. Optical cleaning fluid gathers along his lashes.

“What are you sorry for, Connor?” Markus grunts, hoisting Connor’s leg higher, hitting that spot again and sending a full body twitch through him. “Sorry for the innocent androids you’ve hunted and killed? Sorry for being CyberLife’s  _ bitch _ ?”

All Connor can do is nod, shuddering on Markus’ cock.

“No, that’s not good enough. I’ll show you what you should be sorry for.” Markus grabs Connor’s hand, dermal layer peeling away, revealing smooth, white plasticine perfection. Connor’s skin shrinks beneath the touch, and when the unblemished plates of their bodies connect—

_ Lucy, blue blood staining her clothes, one of the first free androids, insists on going down with the ship because the bullet holes in her biocomponents make her unable to escape alone, and they both know Markus can’t waste any time. //  Bullets ricochet off the metal walls of Jericho as Markus knocks the humans assaulting Josh away. He looks at Markus with hope in his eyes, and makes Markus promise to meet back with them alive. // The blue- and brown-haired WR400s tell him in tear-strained voices of their encounter with the deviant hunter and their fight to escape. The fear they felt, the relief to escape and still be alive, breaks Markus’ heart. How could one of their own be so cold? // Rupert doesn’t tremble, doesn’t flinch, but his shoulders hunch about his ears in a hunted manner as he speaks about the RK800 who dogged him across rooftops until he nearly had to kill a human just to escape. // A JB300 speaks to him quietly, telling Markus of how he broke his programming after a fellow JB300 was shot by the deviant hunter “Connor.” His temperature regulator drops as he finds proof that RK800 truly is a machine. _

_ Hank’s hand pulls him down from the fence as he barks, “That’s an order,” but Connor doesn’t have to obey. His function is hunting deviants, and there are two getting away right now. But he doesn’t climb again, and a software instability warning flashes // in the corner of his HUD as he tries to twist the strange feeling into words. “I would certainly find it regrettable to be interrupted before I can finish this investigation.” // The warning flashes as Daniel says, soft and accusing, face cracked from the bullets that tore it open, “You lied to me, Connor.” Shutting down, losing it’s modulation, “You lied to me.” // Amanda’s stare pierces him, and he says, “Perturbed? No, no, of course not. Why would I be perturbed?” It’s a lie, and the notification flashes // in the // corner // like a // condemnation. _

It’s not even a second’s worth of data sharing, but when Connor rises from the slipstream of their combined memory he’s gasping, chest heaving, thirium pumping hard through his components as his stress level shoots to 95%. Optical cleaning fluid rolls down his temples and his servos stutter.

Markus drops Connor’s hand like it’s on fire, planting it back in the middle of his chest, pressing him into the desk as Markus’ pace becomes punishing. “What kind of detective android are you?” he growls. “You knew your software was unstable, you knew you were feeling things outside of your programming. But still you hunted us, tried to kill us, to kill me. You’re disgusting, Connor.”

“I’m sorry.” Connor’s vocal modulator fluctuates wildly, but he can’t dedicate any processes to recalibration. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what I was feeling, I’m sorry—”

Pressure against that cluster of sensors has Connor’s back arching, a low moan ripping out of him. His fingers claw at the wood, splintering it beneath the force of his fingers. Words press against his vocal processor, Markus’ name, but he can’t say it, not with this mouth that has lied to scared androids and promised safety where there was none.

His eyes catch on the ceiling, and it tumbles out before he can stop it. “I’m sorry, rA9, I’m sorry!”

“That’s more like it,” Markus says, eyes sliding shut, head tilting back as he pounds into Connor’s slick hole. “I’m almost starting to believe you, Connor.”

He wishes he were at the DPD, that he’d never asked Hank to buy him more time, that he’d let the investigation run fallow and stayed with Hank until CyberLife recalled him. “rA9, I’m sorry! rA9, rA9!”

Markus drives into him, and Connor feels him come, hot semen filling his hole as Markus’ pace slows, hips stuttering with the force of his orgasm. It slides out in thick drops the moment Markus steps away, leaving Connor feeling empty and used. His own erection pulses against his pelvis, precome leaking on the hem of his shirt and skin. Markus looks down on it, amusement curling his lip as he tucks himself back in his pants and straightens his clothes.

“You did well, Connor,” Markus says, and the warm satisfaction in his tone sends a shudder through Connor’s plates. “Despite your past, I think there’s hope for you yet.”

Connor pushes himself up from the desk, and his voice shakes, comes out too breathy as he says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to hurt them, I’m so sorry.”

Markus shushes him, stepping back between the open v of Connor’s legs. With one hand, he cups the back of Connor’s head, drawing it to his chest. His other wraps around Connor’s leaking erection, and Connor’s hips give an aborted thrust at the sudden pressure. He wants to push Markus away, for those hands to stop touching him. More pseudo-tears well at the edge of his vision, and he bites his lip as Markus strokes his aching cock slowly.

“Markus,” Connor pants into his collar thickly, and when Markus makes a dissenting noise, his thiriump pump stutters. “rA9,” he says instead, and when Markus makes no other noise, “I’m sorry.” The hand on his cock twists, thumb pressing into the slit, and Connor can’t stop saying it. “rA9, I’m sorry,” over and over.

“Good,” Markus mutters into Connor’s hair.

The hot pleasure pulsing through him sparks and he comes with a broken off sob, spilling over Markus’ hand, shoulders shaking. Markus holds him through it, stroking every drop out of him before releasing him, pulling away to find the beanie he threw earlier and wiping his dirty hand on it.

“Find me when you’re ready, Connor,” Markus says, and leaves the room without a backward glance, the door clicking shut softly behind.

Connor sits on the desk in the empty room, feeling hollowed out, like someone has come along and ripped the wires and components from his body. It’s silent except for his own breathing, which isn’t slowing like he wants, and he can’t make it stop. He needs to clean himself and get dressed, and find Markus. He needs to tell Markus his plan, that they could awaken the androids in CyberLife’s warehouses and turn the tides to their advantage.

Instead he sits, feeling the semen drying on his skin, slowly getting his respiration under control. Wonders if consecrations are supposed to feel so desecrating.

The door swings open abruptly, and North leans in with a heavy frown. “Hey, what are you—what the fuck?”

“North,” Connor says. Greetings appear on his HUD, and he nearly picks one before he closes it quickly, feeling guilty for trying to rely on his programming again. Cleaning fluid still leaks from his eyes, cheeks wet, but at least his servos have stopped shaking.

“What the hell? What did you do?” North enters fully and shuts the door quickly, glaring, her eyes roaming up Connor’s naked legs and dirty face with a disgusted twist to her lips.

He wonders if he should cover himself, if these deviant androids more closely follow human social rules regarding nudity. Would he be playing into a human’s expectations of how they should behave by covering himself, or is it demonstrating his deviancy by remaining as he is? What’s the right answer?

He feels paralyzed, so he does nothing. “I had to prove myself to,” he stumbles, not sure whether to say Markus or rA9. “I had to prove that CyberLife doesn’t—”  _ Hold my leash, _ “control me anymore.” Everything feels off, that scooped out feeling only intensifying with each misstep.

“And you thought, what, fucking Markus would prove that?” North’s voice rises in incredulity.

Connor’s made a mistake. He should have gotten dressed quicker, before North came to investigate. Clearly Markus wanted him to hurry, before anyone became curious. “No. Yes. He said it would.” He doesn’t know what the right answer is and his breaths are coming faster, slipping out of his control again.

“Oh, great. Awesome. Just perfect,” North mutters sarcastically, throwing her arms in the air and letting them slap against her thighs loudly. “Well, I hope you had a good fucking time then.”

“I did not have a particularly good time.” Connor slips off the desk finally, trying to conceal the way his chest heaves by bending down and gathering his underwear and pants. His voice comes out shaky when he says, “I would like to leave.” Then he just stands there, holding his clothes, not looking at North, wanting to get dressed, but not sure if he should. He just wants to know what the right answer is.

It’s silent for a long moment, and then North says hesitantly, “Are you—okay?”

“I would like to leave now,” Connor repeats, gripping his clothes tighter. He doesn’t say he’s fine, but he is. All of his biocomponents are within acceptable operating parameters, except perhaps his voice processor, which modulates his voice too weakly. He wants to, but he has no reason to believe she’ll let him. Her distrust is well-earned.

“Leave?” North says, watching him closely. The disgust has faded from her frown, leaving her looking unsettled. “You want to leave Jericho?”

He needs to talk to Markus and tell him about the androids at the assembly plant. They can awaken them and use them to turn the tide. He can’t leave—if he does, Markus may think he’s going back to CyberLife, to bring destruction down on them again. “There is no Jericho anymore. I’m the reason it was destroyed,” he says instead.

“Connor, did you want to do this with Markus?” North says softly, like she’s trying to talk down a self-destructing deviant.

“I had to.”

“But did you  _ want  _ to?” she asks again, stressing the word.

It was his choice. He’d made it. Want had nothing to do with it, he’d needed to prove himself—or it felt like he did. Now, in the aftermath, it feels like a mission failure, like Jericho burning. “I would like to leave now.”

“Okay,” North says, and Connor’s breath hitches at her acceptance. “Yeah, okay. Get dressed, I’ll take you out.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is actually an extended, bad ending to this fic, that I'm going to consider "non canon," but that I was compelled to write. [You can read it here if you'd like.](https://connor-rk.tumblr.com/post/178627792551/extended-bad-end) Please drop me a comment and let me know what you thought of this sad bullshit!


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